


Here, In This Prison

by Mindset



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-18
Updated: 2012-05-18
Packaged: 2017-11-05 13:44:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/407094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mindset/pseuds/Mindset
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What actually did happen after S2E7: “A Man Without Honor” left Sansa and Sandor (and Shae) in that very uncomfortable-looking situation?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sandor

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** mentions (but not graphic depictions) of physical abuse and sexual abuse/assault  
>  **Disclaimer:** George R.R. Martin owns these characters, HBO owns this particular variation of them (especially Shae); I own nothing but my imagination.  
>  **Note:** I owe a certain plot point to [this blog post](http://masiedeehasablog.blogspot.com/2012/05/game-of-thrones-behind-scenes.html) (warning, NSFW). Other plot points may end up completely contradicted by the events of episode 8 or after, but I'm working with what I have as of today.

It was the sound of a girl’s terrified crying that caught his attention.

The pale light of sunrise filled the empty halls of the Red Keep as Sandor Clegane walked back to his rooms. His night guarding the king had been mostly peaceful, and he was winding down — this wasn’t the fastest path back, but frequently one with the best views — when he heard muffled sobs coming from the little bird’s apartments.

He glanced through the open doorway, and saw Sansa Stark weeping, tearing at her bedclothes — the back of her gown soaked with blood — and he rushed in, seeking her assailant — not Joff, not possible, he’d seen the little shit still asleep just minutes earlier — one of his fine _brothers_ of the Kingsguard mayhaps?

And then he saw the stain on her mattress, like a banner of Lannister crimson. _Seven hells…_ he knew blood, but not this blood, not women’s mysteries. Gods, the little bird had flowered, hadn’t she. A woman in truth, not just in looks. He shouldn’t be here… And as she sat on the bed, crying, so helpless and pitiful, he turned away, cursing himself for adding to her pain. Shit, this meant she was ready now,  for—

 _He carried the woman in his arms, careful with her limp and broken body. Her brown hair, matted with blood, fell across her blank and unseeing eyes. The dark halls were oddly silent, as if they hadn’t rung with her screams but moments before. Silent but for the whispered, desperate pleading of the red-haired whore by his side… The girl’s screams echoed down the alley, and he ran, anger fueling his steps… She gasped in pain as the knight struck her, and he clenched his fists, willing it to be over, no, fuck that, do something, anything, you gutless fraud… He cradled his sister’s limp and broken body, and all he could hear was her labored breathing, all he could see was her brown hair, matted with blood, her once-bright smile shattered, the only smile that had turned his way since… His own screams rang in his ears, but he could still hear the hiss of the coals as…_ No. _Enough of this._

Sandor looked up as the girl’s handmaid burst into the room, breathing heavily. She saw him and stepped forward, knife in hand. But he touched the hilt of his sword, and she relented, contenting herself to staring daggers instead. _Ah, so that’s how it is._ A foreign drudge and an old scarred dog, the only allies the Stark girl had in this damned city. And neither of them likely worth a clipped copper in the end.

But the woman’s presence seemed to give the little bird strength, nevertheless. Sansa gazed up at him with pleading eyes, big and blue and filled with tears, and whispered, “Please, ser. Please don’t tell the queen.”

A flash of rage came over him, just as it had the day before. _I’m no ser_ , he wanted to shout at her, not a bloody knight rescuing pretty maidens. How could he tell her it had been the look in her eyes that was more than enough thanks for him, that moment when her fear turned to trust, the clasp of her hand… Far more real and true than any so-courteous but empty little compliments.

Though that look was gone now, he had driven it away just as he’d known he would. And the little bird sat shaking with fear, the cut on her cheek bright against her pale face, her arms wrapped around herself. He was again but a Lannister dog to her. As he was. An inner voice insisted, _but you promised, you said you’d stand between her and Joff_ — and another, mocking and cruel, replied, _and watch? And do nothing as always? Not just a dog, but a craven one. Do as you’re told, boy._ “Little bird,  I—”

“I could make it worth your while, milord,” the handmaid said, her exotic accent heavy. Sansa’s head whipped round to stare at her maid… she hadn’t expected that tactic at all, he realized. He looked the woman up and down, smirking, knowing what the expression did to his scars — and she recoiled, slightly, but enough. So much for that. _And I’m no lord, no more than I’m a knight._

“Quiet,” Sandor growled. “And you, woman, shut that door. Did either of you say anything about—” he gestured at the bed, “—this? Any words aloud at all?”

The little bird stuttered, “I… I said… if the queen finds out… that I can have Joffrey’s children now…”

“Seven hells.” He leaned against the wall. _It’s not the children you should be afraid of, girl, it’s the begetting. (A gasp of pain, and then her screams echoing through the hall; her auburn hair, matted with blood, blue eyes unseeing.)_ Too late, too damned late. “No use to try and hide it, then. Varys — that bloody Spider — he’s got eyes and ears throughout the castle, nothing stays secret here.” The handmaid’s expression went carefully blank at his words, he noted, _interesting._ He added, “And _fucking_ Littlefinger has his spies too.” It was Sansa who flinched at that news, or perhaps his lack of courtesy, and glanced oddly at him. _Yes, girl, I_ am _always hateful._ “Either one of those bastards will sell you out in a minute. Little bird, I…” He shook his head. “The queen will hear as soon as she wakes.”

She whimpered softly. “My other handmaid belongs to the queen, but… Shae stopped her — didn’t you?” The foreign woman — Shae — nodded, her mouth tight. Sansa went on, more desperate, “We could… we could say it’s not true… get rid of my featherbed somehow…”

Sandor had to laugh. _Pretty little thing, but such a bad liar._ “How, girl? Set it on fire? Why not your bed too? Why not your whole room? The truth’s not in your mattress, but in _you_.”

“He is right, milady.” Shae sighed, and moved to sit on the bed next to the little bird, and patted her hand. “I shut up that bitch, but she still may talk — and even if we somehow keep this secret this time… there is the next time, and the next… how long can you hide?”

“We could _try_ ,” Sansa whispered earnestly, her eyes filling up with tears once more. “Until… until Robb—” And she stopped short, looking around in fear, no doubt for the eyes and ears he’d told her about. _No, girl, even in your bedroom you’re not safe._ Gods, the little bird still thought her noble brother would come save her, didn’t she, like a true knight out of songs. Might as well suggest they run away together…

And for a moment, Sandor entertained that wild thought — her arms clinging to his chest as they rode off… her trusting eyes looking at his across a campfire… a shared smile… But no, that was so stupid, they’d never get away, not with the castle, the city on guard like this. Less than the chance they would have had if he’d let her push Joff over the edge, that time.

Shae said, slowly, “Perhaps… t-the Hand could be of help?”

 _The Hand?!_ “Seven buggering hells, the fucking _Imp?”_ he spat, and both women stared up at him in surprise. The damn dwarf thought he was _so_ clever, but the look on his face when Sandor had brought back what was left of his “present”… _her brown hair, matted with blood…_ “He’s fucking useless when it comes to the king.” _And yet he spoke up when you did nothing,_ the voice mocked, _when you stood there in your white cloak and let them beat her._ He shook his head. _No more of this._

Now, Cersei was no better with Joff, had indulged the boy since he was born, but of late Sandor had sensed a certain wariness… he wasn’t sure, but it was better than the alternative. “Girl, you should go to the queen, tell her before a spy does. You’ll save yourself pain that way.” If anyone knew how spiteful Cersei could be to those who displeased her, and how rewarding to those who obeyed… “I’ll take you to her, if you like. Be a good dog.” He laughed bitterly.

Sansa closed her eyes, breathed deeply, and nodded assent. “Yes, we must all do our duty, mustn’t we,” she said, resigned. “We’ll go now—” She stood up, and staggered, nearly falling — he reached for her, but her handmaid caught her first.

“Ah, no, milady. First you must have a bath, and a clean gown after. Then we will go.” Shae looked at him, and jerked her head toward the door. “You, ser, let Her Grace know we are coming soon.”

 _Go, dog._ Or was it, _Get out, man?_ He didn’t belong here, he never had. Sandor turned to leave, but the little bird caught his arm. He stared at her, and she stared back, like yesterday, so disconcertedly bold. If she tried to thank him again, call him brave… or worse, _kind_ … But all Sansa did was… smile… sadly, the corners of her mouth barely turning up, her eyes still teary. Nothing like the delighted look she used to give Joff before she learned the truth about her beloved. But still, a smile, at him. For him.

“Little bird,” Sandor rasped. He nodded to her, and walked away.


	2. Sansa

The hot water of the bath felt so good, relieving most of the pains in her belly. Sansa had wanted to scrub her skin, at first, but Shae had stopped her, saying it was unnecessary; soapy water and a cloth would do the job. And she was right, though Sansa still felt a slight urge… the same one that had compelled her to cut apart her bedclothes, as if making the blood go away would make it not have happened. But… here she was. Flowered. A woman now.

 _Truly, I’m a maid,_ she thought, _I’m not a woman until I’m of age._ But she knew the Lannisters would treat her as one — and so she had to be one, not a frightened girl anymore. Still, she couldn’t help but be grateful for Shae’s presence. It had been so hard to open up to the handmaid at first, when she knew that all her others were the queen’s creatures, telling tales… but the foreign woman had proven herself quickly.

And it hadn’t taken her long to learn the Westerosi ways of a handmaid, either. Shae poured another pitcher of steaming water into the tub, and Sansa sighed, almost happy. “That’s so nice,” she said.

“Good,” Shae said. “Later, if you need it, I can get you a hot stone for your stomach. And… willow bark, they call it here, I will ask the maester.” She frowned. “I can get you something else too, milady… but not yet. If the queen is kind, maybe you will not need it for some time.”

Sansa doubted that, whatever it was. But she could only hope that Queen Cersei would be… less insistent, and perhaps her wedding to Joffrey would not take place so soon. _I should go to the godswood,_ she considered, _and the sept too,_ to pray to the Maiden and for the Mother’s mercy.

Shae began to comb out her tangled hair. She leaned close to Sansa’s ear and said, “This Hound… he is a strange man.”

“Yes, he is, but…” Sansa shrugged, and whispered, “I _think_ I trust him. I know what you said, and I don’t know why I feel this way… but I do.”

“He does not like many people, does he.”

“No, I don’t think so.” The Hound had said so many nobles’ names with curses attached, in just a few minutes — and even the ones he hadn’t been hateful about, like the king and queen, Sansa could tell there was no great love there. Odd, for a man who had served the Lannisters most of his life… But then, in view of her own year’s experience of them, perhaps it wasn’t that odd after all.

“He likes _you_ ,” Shae said softly, and Sansa whipped her head around, searching the handmaid’s face for signs of a jape, but the woman looked absolutely serious.

“Really? But he is always so angry with me, scowling or staring or…” She shivered… or making her feel _very_ peculiar with the way he looked at her, sometimes. But not the way Joffrey did nowadays, not at all.

Shae nodded, and helped her out of the tub. “Yes, exactly. Some men are like that, you will learn. Why does he call you ‘little bird’?”

That question had been puzzling Sansa for several days now. “I… don’t know. He first said that—” _when he saved me,_ “—during the riot, I don’t know why. The queen sometimes calls me ‘little dove’, but he says it… differently. He said… to take the bird back to her cage. That is, me, to my rooms…”

“A very pretty cage, yes. Like this whole shitty city.” Shae laughed.

The handmaid was somewhat strange herself, Sansa thought. Had she really tried to _seduce_ the Hound? It was so _odd_ to think of him with a woman. One had to be courteous, though; if a foreigner didn’t know all the rules of proper behavior, it wasn’t their fault. But Shae certainly knew _some_ things, useful things. And as her maid helped her with the cloth that would go in her smallclothes, Sansa decided she was good with _messy_ things. The Hound was like that too, in his way.

Shae found her a clean nightgown, and a robe. As she pulled the gown over her head, the handmaid murmured, “But you should take care. The Hound is dangerous. Though not desperate, not yet.”

 _Dangerous? Yes, certainly._ She recalled the way he had fought so brutally in the king’s tourney, the way he had torn apart the men who attacked her. Yet he was strangely gentle sometimes, like when he had caught her on the bridge and wiped her bloody lip, or when he had carried her to safety. But… “Desperate?” Sansa asked. _I don’t know what that means._

“Just a feeling.” Shae shrugged. “Be careful, milady.”

There was a perfunctory tapping at the door, and another maidservant entered and looked at them, impatience showing on her face. “Her Grace is _waiting_.”

Sansa sighed, almost wishing that the Hound had come back to escort her to the queen. But she supposed he had done his duty and gone on, as she must do herself now.  As Sansa stood, she stole a glance in her looking-glass — her damp hair was slightly mussed, and she looked pale and drawn — but Shae had done her best with the little time they had been given. And Sansa was grateful.

She turned to her handmaid, clasped her hand, and whispered, “I am always careful here, Shae.” _Now, at least. And I will trust no-one, as you told me. But perhaps one day I won’t have to._


End file.
